


Weightless

by all_these_ghosts



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-I Want to Believe, Vacation, mostly kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 14:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8288273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_these_ghosts/pseuds/all_these_ghosts
Summary: This isn’t real life either, the two of them curled together at the water’s edge, so she lets herself imagine a life where they’ve run far and fast enough that the shadows never catch them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> @fistful-of-fandom on Tumblr asked for fluff set during their post-IWTB tropical vacation :) here it is!  
> all this stuff has been on Tumblr already, I've just been dragging my ass about putting it on here

It's the kind of place she should hate.

Her childhood vacations were always done on the cheap: day trips to the beach, camping trips where they ate baked beans cooked in the can, road trips spent in the back seat of the station wagon, dutifully looking out the window when her mother pointed out some important landmark and hoping that Charlie wouldn't throw up on her again.

As an adult, she's rarely vacationed. In med school she took a couple of trips to Vegas or Atlantic City with her girlfriends. After she joined the FBI, that one ill-fated trip to Maine was enough to permanently turn her off the idea.

And since she _left_ the FBI, it’s been a non-issue. Living with a fugitive doesn’t give you many opportunities for leisure travel.

So when Mulder slipped those plane tickets under her mug, she’d been deeply suspicious. Spending a week on some half-empty island with a suitcase containing nothing but sunscreen, bathing suits, and trashy novels seems like asking for trouble. Surely they’ll run into a sea monster or serial murderer.

It’s like he said. The darkness finds them.

International travel is still complicated, though at least Mulder’s not on the no-fly list or they’d be having a midwinter vacation on the Eastern Shore. She imagines those snowy beaches and shivers. Luckily you don’t need a passport for Puerto Rico.

And so far, Vieques is doing very nicely. Even if they’d had to take a terrifyingly small plane - Mulder unhelpfully referred to it as “the minivan of the skies” - to get here.

Theirs is a tiny house right on the beach, at the the edge of a larger property. It’s small - just a bedroom, a living area, and a bathroom - but well appointed. Scully is particularly pleased to note the large clawfoot tub and the smooth, heavy bedsheets.

Mulder follows her through the house as she touches everything. “Good?” he finally asks. She’s standing in front of the sliding doors, looking out. Behind the house there are two lounge chairs and a hammock tied between palm trees, and then the ocean, just steps away even at low tide. The surf is gentle, the water perfectly blue. It’s idyllic in the extreme.

“Really good,” she says. When she turns around he’s right behind her, and she wraps her arms around him, resting her head on his chest. His heartbeat and the sound of the surf.

Fox Mulder at the beach. Why not?

* * *

That night they walk along the waterfront into town. There are a half-dozen restaurants along the beach, and Scully picks the first one that advertises margaritas. They sit on the patio as the sky darkens and the lights come on, fairy lights twinkling on every storefront and café. She can feel her edges softening.

Maybe this is why people go on vacation.

The tequila and Mulder conspire to make her drunk and pliable. She licks the rim of her glass and his eyes follow her tongue. They went swimming earlier. He’ll be salty, too.

They walk home hand in hand. The water laps at the shore. The stars are bright.

Scully breathes in as deeply as she can, and holds it. She remembers a poem she read once, years ago: _o, to take what we love inside._

When they get back, Scully climbs into the hammock and Mulder joins her. Together they fall into the center, the netting cradling them and pushing them closer together. Her leg around his hip, his hand at her waist. The hammock sways. 

“We could run away,” she says idly, and he strokes her hair, the smooth strands sliding between his fingers.

He reminds her, “We tried that.”

“This would be different. Live on the beach, eat fresh fish every day. You’d get tan.”

“You’d get freckly.”

“That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.” She doesn’t usually let herself do this - inhabit a fantasy, even for a moment. It only makes reality harder to return to.

But this isn’t real life either, the two of them curled together at the water’s edge, so she lets herself imagine a life where they’ve run far and fast enough that the shadows never catch them.

She licks the salt from his lips and tugs him even closer, all of him hard and hot against her. They are a jumble of hands and limbs wrapped in the hammock, and they’ll both have rope marks in the morning, but she doesn’t mind. It’s proof that they were here.

* * *

Mulder gets better with age.

Oh, she’s sometimes nostalgic for the way he used to be: all fervent excitement and bright eyes and his impossibly lithe torso. But now he takes his time with things, especially her, and that’s nothing to complain about. And where he used to be slim he’s now powerful, and as he rows them out into the bay she watches his arms, the textbook-perfect motion of his biceps, the way the light transforms him.

He’s watching her too, and grinning. “Need tickets to the gun show?”

Scully rolls her eyes. “That’s terrible, Mulder.”

Mulder shrugs modestly. He can’t keep the smirk off his face.

He gets better with age, but some things about him haven’t changed at all.

After a while he takes a break. “You know there are bioluminescent bays on this island,” he says, looking around like the creatures might somehow reveal themselves in the middle of the day.

“That’s what the guidebook says,” she agrees.

“We should go, one of these nights.”

“Mm.” She closes her eyes, lets the sun soak into her skin. To Mulder’s amusement she’s religiously applied SPF 65 sunscreen about six times a day, and it’s worth it to be able to sit like this. In the middle of the ocean, wearing nothing but a tiny cover-up and a tinier bikini, Mulder’s heated gaze all over her.

Since that first night they haven’t bothered to go out in the evenings. On the second day they’d gone to the island’s grocery store, and Scully is starting to think she could live on homemade avocado and fish tacos forever. And there are lots of benefits to staying in.

They’re moving again; she can hear the soft slap of the paddle hitting the water. She briefly entertains the idea of offering to take a turn, but decides against it. He always wants to drive, right? So he can drive.

Besides, she thinks, glancing over at him, he looks incredibly good doing this, and that benefits both of them.

When they get close to the shore Scully says, “I’m going in,” and climbs over the edge of the boat. She’s immediately in over her head, and the warm water feels cold on her overheated skin. When she returns to the surface she slicks her wet hair back and blinks the saltwater out of her eyes.

“Come in,” she says, grinning up at him.

“Can’t,” he says, gesturing with the paddles. “I have to watch the boat.” But he’s smiling too, broad and unreserved, and even if she really is immortal she’ll never forget how happy he looks in this moment.

“I’ll tip the boat,” she threatens.

“Sorry, Scully, but I don’t think you have the upper body—“

Turns out she didn’t have to tip the boat, she just had to tip him.

Mulder is sputtering and luckily still holding on to the paddles; she takes them one at a time from his hands and puts them back in the boat.

“That was mean,” he says, looking at her through his hair. It’s plastered to his forehead, dripping water down onto his nose.

Treading water, she smirks at him. 

He’s standing on the bottom, one hand on the edge of the boat. She swims toward the shore and he follows her, until the water’s shallow enough that they can both stand. Then Scully comes up to him, her toes sinking into the sand. “Thank you,” she says.

“For what?” he says, but then she’s reaching up and kissing him and his free hand lifts her up and against him and in the water she is weightless, he is tethering her to earth.

* * *

When she gets into bed he’s wearing nothing but his glasses. It’s a good look.

“What are you reading?” she asks, sliding between the covers, and Mulder shows her the front of the book. The title contains the word _ghost_ and it doesn’t contain the word _novel_. Scully considers teasing him, but she read _The Da Vinci Code_ on the airplane, and they both know it. Besides, they’re on vacation.

“Read it to me?” she asks.

He looks at her over his glasses. “Seriously?”

She snuggles up to him, resting her head on his chest. He starts reading aloud mid-paragraph, but she’s not here for the content.

For a while she half-listens, letting his voice and the sound of the waves outside lull her half-asleep. It’s the memoir of a supposed ghost hunter, and she hopes he’s not getting any ideas. They’ve been shot in enough haunted houses, thank you very much.

After a chapter or so she gets distracted, and she finds herself running her palms down the hard planes of his chest. He drops the book on the floor, not bothering to mark his page. “Can I help you?” he teases.

“I think so,” she says, letting her hands wander lower. He lies back and sighs contentedly, happy to let her do the work.

Years ago she’d stood in his apartment in Alexandria while he watched her from the couch. She’d taken off her blouse and blazer and stepped out of her skirt, and when she reached down to take off her heels he’d said, his voice rough, “Keep them on.”

She climbs on top of him, her knees on either side of his hips. When she leans down to kiss him he reaches up to take his glasses off and she says, “Keep them on.”

* * *

On their last night they finally make it out to the bay. It’s a moonless night, and after a long, bumpy ride a Jeep deposits their tour group at the water’s edge.

“This is a tourist gimmick, Mulder,” she complains, but she straps on her life vest and climbs into the kayak. He gets in across from her.

“Then it’s a good thing we’re tourists,” he says.

Their tour leader pushes them off, and they glide out into the still bay. She dips her paddle into the water and she can’t help it: she gasps. Where the paddle touches, the water lights up. Bright blue pinpricks; a swarm. Of course she knows the science, but it’s still incredible to see in person. _And you thought nothing could surprise you anymore._

She glances back at Mulder. He’s moving his paddle aimlessly through the clear water, watching the dinoflagellates follow it around. “Whoa,” he says appreciatively. 

They row deeper into the bay, and neither of them can keep their eyes off the water. An hour ago she’d been jaded, skeptical as always, but it’s all been replaced with wonder.

“See?” Mulder says behind her. “Science is cool.”

Scully turns around as far as she can without tipping the kayak. “Mulder, that’s what I’ve been saying the _whole time_.”

“No,” he says, dipping his paddle in again, “what you’ve been saying is that science answers every question.”

“Because it does.”

He snorts.

“There’s always a scientific explanation,” she insists. “I can’t think of a single phenomenon that—“

But suddenly he’s right behind her, and his mouth closes over her neck, his tongue and teeth on the tendon there. Her entire body shudders at once, every nerve at attention. “What about this?” he asks.

“It’s a physiological response,” she says breathlessly, trying to remember what they’re arguing about. He’s nuzzling her neck now and it is making it absolutely impossible to concentrate. 

“Is that all we are, Scully? Just chemicals and synapses firing?” His fingertips tease up the smooth skin of her thigh and she squirms.

“Yes…and no,” she concedes. “Mulder, you’re going to tip us over.”

“Then we’d be even,” he says, right in her ear. God.

Mercifully he returns to his seat, and they don’t tip over. “I’m just saying, Scully,” he says, his tone perfectly even and conversational, damn him, while she’s still shivering. “Sure, there’s a ‘scientific explanation’ for this.” He pauses, and the ease in his voice is gone. “But it’s still wonderful.”

She’s no longer sure that he’s talking about the dinoflagellates, but she pretends. “They look like stars,” Scully says, watching the sparks in the water.

“Beautiful,” Mulder agrees, and she knows it’s too dark for him to see her blush. How absurd, after all these years.

The sky and the sea are full of stars, and they float suspended in the middle, trying to look in every direction at once. She thinks, _Beautiful_.


End file.
